Early Birdy Catches the Worm
by CheckAlexa
Summary: Bridget Mason had wanted just a simple camping trip with her friends: no mobiles, no mysteries, and no Mycroft Holmes breathing down her neck. Of course, life is never simple when your flatmate is the world's only consulting detective. Sequel to A Little Birdy Told Me
1. Toast and Decapitations

_Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's_ Sherlock _or the collective works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's_ Sherlock Holmes

Toast and Decapitations

For the occupants of 221B Baker Street, mornings entailed sitting in near silence around the kitchen table. The woman, Bridget Mason, though she preferred the moniker 'Birdy', could usually be found eating breakfast whilst reading the morning paper. Her flatmate, the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, was more adverse to food than the average man, especially when he was working on a case. On this particular day, he was nibbling on a crumpet, though Birdy was positive he wasn't aware that he was even doing it, focused intently on what he considered to be a fascinating slice of sheep brain that had been infected by scrapie.

"According to _The Sun_ , John's having an affair," Birdy noted while she flipped idly through the tabloid. The gossip rag was hardly her first choice of reading material, but Mrs Hudson had given it to the young woman, promising her that she would absolutely love the article on page nine.

"Still with me?" Sherlock asked without bothering to look up from his microscope.

"No, me."

"You will cease any further efforts at stealing my lover, Bridget," Sherlock snapped, glancing over at his flatmate. "Your toast is burning."

Birdy gave a yelp of surprise and dove for the toaster. "You did that on purpose," she accused, pulling the now black toast from the toaster, the dial on the device turned up suspiciously high. "Burning my toast won't stop me from leaving, Sherlock."

Her flatmate favoured looking into his microscope over answering her.

With a sigh, Birdy tossed the ruined food in the bin and started making new toast. It wasn't even a difficult task, but after the fourth assault on her food, Birdy was starting to get a little annoyed. If she didn't hurry, she would be late. And Birdy did not like to be late. But she also didn't like to eat too quickly, in case she choked and died, which was a fact that Sherlock seemed to be fully exploiting this morning.

"I'll be back Sunday evening, Sherlock. I'm hardly abandoning you," Birdy tried again to engage the man in a conversation. "I'm sure John would love to do something with you. What about the decapitation in Reading? That one looked interesting."

"So glaringly obvious; so incredibly dull. I'd much rather you tell me where you are going," Sherlock snapped, still looking down at his sheep brains.

"We've discussed this," Birdy replied. "If I told you, Mycroft would find out even faster. I just want one weekend away from your brother. Surly, you can't fault me for that."

Six months ago, Birdy had been offered a job working for the British government to strengthen national cyber security by Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft Holmes. Birdy was of course very proud that she could use her skills to serve her Queen and Country, but had she known that it translated into her becoming a 'valuable asset' to the British government, and therefore entailed Mycroft Holmes constantly breathing down her neck, she probably would have reconsidered taking the job. She rarely got much privacy these days, hence the need for so much secrecy. In fact, when her two friends, Victoria and Molly, had suggested that they take a weekend holiday in South Downs, she had purchased a train ticket to Aberystwyth and told Sherlock's older brother that she was going wild camping Wales. Of course, she had no doubt that it wouldn't take Mycroft too long to find her when he realised that she had lied, but hopefully by then the three of them would be far enough away from civilisation for him to harass her.

Sherlock scoffed in derision. "If you didn't want me to know where you were going, you shouldn't have invited Molly."

Birdy shook her head and began to butter her toast. She wanted to admonish him for manipulating the pathologist who was clearly in love with him, but Birdy knew that the consulting detective would merely shrug his shoulders and claim to be a 'high functioning sociopath.' "What do you want, Sherlock," Birdy asked with a small sigh.

Her words had him spinning around in his seat, microscope completely forgotten. "I want to go with you."

For a moment, Birdy thought that Sherlock was joking. Then she remembered that Sherlock wasn't the type to make jokes, which only confused her further. "You? Sherlock Holmes? You want to go on a camping trip?"

"Yes."

Birdy tried, and failed, to stifle a giggle into her toast. The idea of Sherlock sleeping in a tent or sitting around a campfire was too funny to imagine. "No."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, jumping to his feet. He crossed the small kitchen towards his flatmate so that he was towering over her, trying to look intimidating.

"You wore a silk shirt yesterday," Birdy said. "Forgive me for not believing you to be a person who enjoys roughing it out in the wilderness."

Sherlock snorted in annoyance, "And you avoid going to visit your parents because the mobile phone reception is terrible at their house. So why are you willingly going to go camping in the wilderness?"

"First off, I'm not avoiding a visit to my parents," Birdy explained. "Secondly, you need to remember the concept of personal space." She pushed on his chest to prove her point. "And thirdly, low reception means less calls from Mycroft. This is supposed to be a fun holiday with my friends, and I don't want him interrupting it."

"I thought I was your friend," Sherlock said, though he allowed Birdy to slip by him.

Birdy turned to give him a smile. Whilst she knew he was only saying those words to manipulate her into allowing him to join the trip, she felt a warm feeling in her chest nonetheless. "You are, Sherlock." She pulled him into a hug, which she knew would make him feel uncomfortable, but Birdy decided that he would do well to remember that their friendship was not something to be used to his advantage. "But this is a girl's only trip, so unless you get a gender reassignment surgery in the next five minutes, I'm afraid you are out of luck."

Birdy released a stiff Sherlock from her grip before walking to the door to put on her shoes. She picked up her backpack and sleeping bag then turned to glance over her shoulder. "We can go play murder mystery next weekend, how does that sound?"

An alert on her mobile informed her that Molly was waiting outside in the car. With a little wave to her flatmate, Birdy thundered down the stairs, opened up the front door, and stepped outside into the early morning London air.

 **(A/N: Thanks so much for reading my first chapter of Early Birdy Catches the Worm. This is a sequel to my first story, A Little Birdy Told Me, so if you haven't read that yet, it might help! Anyway, I hope you the chapter. Let me know what you think, any predictions you have, or any critics you want to give in the review box down below! -CheckAlexa)**


	2. Happy Camper?

_Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's_ Sherlock _or the collective works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's_ Sherlock Holmes _._

Happy Camper?

Victoria's car was not the nicest. Actually it was totally useless. Compared to Mycroft's fancy Jaguar or Mrs Hudson's flashy Aston Martin, Victoria's Trabant was like a tin can on wheels, but less comfortable. Well, compared to most cars, the Trabant was terrible. But Victoria was proud of it and wouldn't hear a word against the heap of scrap metal.

"You're doing great, Fabian," Victoria crooned while she stroked the bonnet. The car had broken down for the third time in an hour and was currently releasing an alarming amount of steam. Molly was standing next to Victoria, helping the woman fan the overheated engine. "We are almost there. Just a few more kilometres and you can take a nap."

Molly gave a little rap on the window, startling Birdy, who had curled up in the backseat. "Maybe you should get out of the car, Birdy," she said with a worried look. "You know, just in case we can't get the engine to cool down."

Victoria had mentioned how Fabian was prone to overheating, as he was an 'elderly and distinguished man,' who was built sometime between 1963 and 1990. While for most cars, this wouldn't be a massive problem (though could result in a pricey visit to the mechanic), a Trabant's fuel tank was directly above the engine, meaning the car could explode if the engine overheated. Hence the fanning and Molly's concerned expression.

Birdy was torn. Whilst it was obviously anxiety inducing to be sitting in what could very easily turn into a bomb at any moment, the thought of Mycroft finding her had her sliding back down into the seat as far as she could. "Only if there aren't any CCTV cameras," Birdy compromised after voicing her thoughts.

Molly, who had met Sherlock's older brother, had nothing but sympathy for the computer programmer. Victoria, however, couldn't decide if Birdy's behaviour was pathetic or hilarious, and settled for commenting that the engine didn't seem to be cooling down. Birdy was left with the dilemma of being incinerated by an automobile or fired by her boss. It was only when Molly assured her that there wasn't any way for Mycroft to spy on her did Birdy crawl out from the car.

Victoria gave the dark haired woman, who had taken shelter in a nearby ditch, a curious look. "Is being found by this Mycroft bloke really such a big deal?"

"Yes," Molly and Birdy replied simultaneously.

"What on Earth does he do to you?" Whilst Victoria had never been jealous of Birdy's job at any point in time, the expression on the computer specialist's face made Victoria very glad that she was merely a florist.

Birdy cast a dark look up at the sky, as if checking to make sure that they were actually alone. "Well the first night I met him, he tried to have me kidnapped." Birdy turned her sullen gaze towards her friend. "It's just kind of gone downhill from there."

Birdy was saved from having to answer any more questions by a silver car making its way down A272 towards them. To be safe, Birdy dove to the ground and hoped that she wouldn't catch anything deadly. She considered asking Molly what her odds were of contracting tetanus from the soil.

"How can I help you birds out?" It didn't sound like any of Mycroft's men, but Birdy couldn't be sure. She slowly poked her head up to watch the stranger.

"Unless you've got a massive fan, not much," Victoria explained, eyeing the man up and down. In Birdy's opinion, he wasn't the best looking man in the world, but he wasn't exactly hard on the eyes either. Victoria seemed to think so as well and flashed him a flirty grin. "The old boy gets a bit overheated sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Molly scoffed under her breath.

Victoria sent the pathologist a nasty glare. "I don't see either of you volunteering to drive." She turned back to the man and continued to flirt with him some more.

"Maybe I could take a look at your engine?" The man suggested. "I might be able to find what's causing your problem. It might be the cooling system. That's what keeps your engine cool." It was obvious that the man was trying to be helpful, but the patronising way in which he spoke sounded like he thought they were toddlers, rather than fully grown women.

Victoria tilted her head in confusion. "If you want, I suppose. It's not that interesting, really."

"It's no trouble at all. I don't mind getting my hands a little dirty."

"Yes, neither do I. But the cooling system is fine."

"Oh?" The man seemed to think that her words were humorous for some reason.

"Yes, I checked it five minutes ago," Victoria replied, her tone becoming icy. "The water and the coolant levels in the radiator are also normal. This is normal behaviour for Trabi's in the summer."

"Perhaps you should just chuck this heap of metal?" If he had just left his comment there, the reaction he received probably wouldn't have been so poor. "It seems a little bulky for a pretty little thing like you."

"If Fabian could get my parents out of East Berlin, he can do anything," snapped Victoria. She did a very obvious once over of the young man in front of her. "Besides, I hardly doubt someone who drives a Mercedes will be much help to us; we wouldn't want to actually get your hands dirty."

"Well, to be fair, he only drives a C Class. He probably is used to getting his hands dirty," Birdy supplied helpfully, her sweet tone belying her attitude with the stranger. The man turned to look at her, clearly surprised to see her. Birdy supposed that was fair— she was sprawled out in a ditch after all.

Birdy didn't give him a chance to comment, however. "His long fingernails and unmuscular bum suggests white collar, but the ill-fitting clothes suggest recent weight loss. He's obviously concerned with how others perceive him, otherwise he wouldn't have a C Class, but lacks the financial means to back what he wants to be an extravagant lifestyle. Now, given that the model of the car is new, only came out last year, he must have recently bought it, but has had to cut corners in his budget, my guess, his food bill. But buying the car would definitely be worth it, right? Because then you could brag to your older siblings that you are more successful when you see them this weekend."

The man turned to face Birdy, his expression fluctuating between shock and anger. "Who are you and how did you know I was going to see my siblings this weekend? And that I was the youngest?"

Birdy moved to a sitting position and tried to appear more confident than she felt under his glare and gave him a tiny grin. "You are travelling south and your accent is from Hampshire," Birdy explained. "Add in that you are speaking way more loudly than is necessary, I guessed that you have older siblings that you are accustomed to speaking over. Judging by your irritated expression, I was right?"

The man glared at Birdy for a moment, then at Molly and Victoria who were trying, and failing, to suppress their giggles. "I was trying to help you," the man snapped. "If you're going to act like a—"

"You know, low blood sugar often cause irritable moods. You might want to find something to eat," Molly supplied helpfully.

The man growled before spinning on the spot and stalking towards his car. He got in, slamming the door behind him, then loudly revved the engine and sped off.

Birdy turned to her friends with a shy grin. "That felt really good. I can see why Sherlock enjoys it so much." This caused her friends to laugh even harder. "How is Fabio doing?"

Victoria wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. "It's Fabian," she said with a grin. "And he is ready to go."

~Early Birdy Catches the Worm~

Birdy decided early on that she was not a fan of this camping thing.

After Victoria had parked Fabio, the three women grabbed their rucksacks and began an "easy" five kilometre hike to the camping ground. Birdy was by no means out of shape (she danced at least four days a week, after all), but carrying a tent and a few days' worth of food on her back was hardly easy. Then she tripped over a root and fell arse over tits, leaving her with skinned palms and what was sure to be an impressive bruise on her knees. Luckily Molly was there to patch her up.

Victoria seemed to be having a grand time, however, and Birdy didn't want to ruin the mood by complaining, so she forced a serene smile on her face and pretended that she was just as thrilled to be there. She leaned on Molly and limped along, wishing that she was literally anywhere else. Even sitting in the office was starting to become more appealing.

When they reached the spot where they would be camping for the night, Victoria instructed Birdy and Molly to set up the tent whilst she began dinner. Neither Molly nor Birdy knew how to pitch a tent, but between the two of them, they finally managed to figure it out before dusk. Victoria watched them and laughed whenever they made a mistake, having finished making their dinner quite some time before. It was later than Birdy had thought, apparently an overheating car was a huge time drain, and she could already see the sun beginning to dip lower in the west.

When Birdy asked why they weren't building a campfire (like she had seen in films), Victoria sent her a sly grin while she handed her dinner. "I don't think we are technically allowed to camp here, and fire would draw too much attention to us."

Birdy felt her heart rate begin to accelerate at the thought of doing something illegal. Molly rubbed a comforting hand across her shoulders, but it did little to alleviate the growing anxiety. "What if people find us?" She couldn't go to jail. What would her mother think?

"Relax, I come here all the time, and nothing bad has happened yet," Victoria explained, rolling her eyes. "Well, maybe I've spoken too soon, after all that has been happening."

"What are you going on about?" Birdy asked, hating how her voice quivered slightly. She glanced down at her meal, suddenly too nauseated to eat.

Molly looked over up sharply. "That's enough, Victoria," she said to the florist. "There is no point in talking about it."

But Molly's rebuke only seemed to make Birdy more curious. "What do you mean? What aren't we going to talk about?"

Victoria's lips slowly stretched into a smile, which looked much more sinister in the light of the lantern. "Well the Vampire of South Downs, of course."

Molly gave huff of annoyance. "Oh honestly, Victoria, that is nothing more than a silly rumour made by people with too much time on their hands."

"Is that so? People disappearing in the towns close South Downs National Park are just off at Hogwarts, I suppose?"

"No, the part about the vampires: vampires don't exist, Victoria."

"Know that for a fact, do you? Tell me Dr Hooper, how difficult is it to drain a human body of blood?" When Molly scoffed and turned her head away, Victoria nodded. "That's what I thought." She turned her focus back to Birdy. "The bodies of the missing people have started popping up, of course, but the odd thing is, is that they are all empty of blood. The only mark on their bodies are just two little holes in their neck."

Birdy gasped in shock and turned to Molly. "Is this true?"

Molly opened her mouth to respond but Victoria beat her to it. "Of course it is. Add in the fact that all of the victims were last seen on a full moon," Victoria leaned back, relishing in the horrified look on Birdy's face. "Well, it's no surprise that all of the locals think something supernatural is happening."

"But tomorrow is the full moon!" Birdy exclaimed, jumping up from her spot on the ground. Perhaps she was being irrational, vampires didn't exist after all, but humans did, and they could be just as scary as monsters. How many horrible things had she seen since moving into 221B Baker Street?

"What does the moon phase have to do with anything, Victoria?" Molly snapped, pulling a shivering Birdy into her arms. "That's werewolves, not vampires. And neither exist, so your entire story is pointless."

"Was that a pun?" Victoria asked, her grin more light-hearted than grotesque.

Molly ignored the florist and turned to fully face Birdy. "Don't you listen to a word she says, Birdy. Nothing is going to hurt us tonight."

"Yeah, relax, Birdy, I'm joking," Victoria said. "It's just a scary story. Well, the missing people bit is true, but they've all been men, so we are safe."

Some of the tension in Birdy's shoulders dissipated. Oh, right, scary stories around the campfire. That's what you do on camping trips. Well, they didn't have a campfire, but telling scary stories around the lantern was apparently just as effective.

"That explains why Sherlock wanted to come along," Birdy murmured. "Weird disappearances are his thing. And bodies drained completely of blood popping up? I'm surprised he didn't hide in my rucksack."

"I wish he had," Victoria sighed, going back to her forgotten meal. "That man is seriously fit."

Molly and Birdy both ignored this comment.

"It's hardly scores of bodies, as Victoria was so kind to imply," Molly explained. "Only one has been found, and he was found a few towns over."

"But men have been disappearing?" Birdy asked.

"Yeah, six so far, but only one has been found dead. There isn't any apparent connection between them, so there really isn't a reason to assume that their disappearances are linked," Molly replied, patting Birdy's shoulder. "Like I said, we have nothing to worry about."

Birdy nodded and reluctantly returned to her own food. She wasn't truly hungry, but her therapist said that skipping meals wasn't good for her anxiety— something about dependable patterns and stable blood sugar— so she gnawed at her dinner roll and listened to Victoria and Molly's debate if a werewolf or a vampire would win in a fight (vampires, obviously, werewolves lacked opposable thumbs).

At some point, Victoria stood up and grabbed a torch and roll of toilet tissue and commanded that they not have any fun in her absence. Whilst she was off relieving herself, Molly and Birdy collected their dinners and began to clean up, chatting quietly.

"It really will be okay, Birdy," Molly said. She knew that Birdy was already out of her comfort zone and was now anxious about being sucked dry by members of the undead. Molly wished she could do more to ease her friend's discomfort.

Birdy shook her head and smiled. "I know, it just…"

What exactly, Molly would never find out, because a scream suddenly cut through the still summer air. Molly's first reaction was to roll her eyes at Victoria's scream, thinking that the florist was trying to be funny, but the second, very obviously horrified, scream had her running towards their friend.

 _If this is some sort of prank_ , Birdy thought as she started after the pathologist, _I am never speaking to Victoria again._

Birdy hadn't moved very far, however, when a hand clapped down suddenly on her shoulder, keeping her from taking off into the trees. With a small scream of her own, Birdy rammed her elbow into her attacker's stomach and tried to wiggle free. Her attacker must have anticipated her movements, though, because it grabbed her other arm and spun her around.

"As admirable as your intentions to help your friend are, I would wait here, Bridget," Sherlock said, releasing his grip on his flatmate when he was sure she wasn't going to try to harm him. "This won't be something you want to see."

Then he too disappeared into the dark, and Birdy was left alone.

~Early Birdy Catches the Worm~

"You know, camping isn't all bad," Victoria said. She had been babbling nonsensically ever since Sherlock brought her back to the campsite, and Birdy wasn't entirely sure what to do with the hysterical woman. "I've been doing it all my life, and have never run into a problem."

Birdy pulled Victoria to her and stroked the woman's blonde hair. "I'm sure."

"He was just lying there, staring at me!"

"I think you are in shock, Victoria."

"Oh she definitely is," Sherlock said, emerging from the trees. "Finding a murder victim will do that to you."

Birdy looked at her flatmate in annoyance. "If you aren't going to add anything helpful, Sherlock, maybe you would like to explain what you are doing here?"

The consulting detective glared at her and let out a huff of annoyance.

"A verbal answer, if you please."

"I followed you. Obviously," Sherlock snapped.

Birdy rolled her eyes. "I figured that much out for myself, thanks. Why?"

Sherlock, the overgrown toddler that he is, growled in annoyance. "To find the bodies, Bridget. Or would you have preferred to find them yourself?"

She ignored his rude tone. "Is this one like the other man? The one they say was killed by a vampire?"

"Vampires," Sherlock scoffed. He pulled out his phone and began to type on it. "The deceased's name is James Gerald, aged twenty-four, missing for three weeks. Last seen leaving a pub in Easeborne after a night of moderate drinking with acquaintances."

"Was he drained of blood too?" Birdy asked, rubbing Victoria's shoulders when the woman let out a whimper.

Sherlock fixed his flatmate with a steady look. "Yes."

"And he had two marks on his neck?"

"Yes."

"And this isn't a vampire, how?"

Sherlock glared at Birdy. "I have never taken you as the type of fool to believe in such stories." He left it unspoken that he found her to be a fool in other areas of her life, but he generously remained silent on those matters.

Birdy rolled her eyes. "Don't you always say that once you eliminate the impossible—,"

"Vampires are impossible, Bridget, not improbable," Sherlock said. "Now, answer that while I question your friend." He tossed Birdy his mobile and bent down so that he was eye to eye with Victoria.

Birdy hit the receive button on the device with exaggerated movements, which Sherlock ignored.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said in a falsely cherry voice.

There was silence for a moment before: "Ms Mason, would you like to explain to me why you aren't in Aberystwyth?" Came Mycroft's cool voice.

 **(A/N: I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Let me know what you think in the comments. Also, I'm looking for a beta reader, so please, PM me if you are interested!)**


	3. One Room Left in the Inn

_Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's_ Sherlock _or the collective works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's_ Sherlock Holmes _._

One Room Left in the Inn

Perhaps Birdy should have listened to Mycroft's ranting when she answered Sherlock's mobile. Maybe then she wouldn't have been so surprised when Sherlock pulled up to the little inn. She definitely wouldn't have been so confused when he handed her a ring and told her to put in on her left ring finger.

Instead, she sat down on the ground and placed the mobile next to her, and watched Sherlock interrogate Victoria. It was a testament to her state of mind when the florist didn't even attempt to flirt with him but answered his questions in a hollow sounding voice. Molly had disappeared with the police, providing her expertise to them. If Birdy focused enough, she could just make out the sound of Molly's conversation over Sherlock's questioning and Mycroft's ranting.

"…less than six hours… completely drained… few defensive wounds…"

"Now, how did you not notice the stench?"

"Miss Mason, are you even listening to me?"

Birdy sighed and picked up the mobile again. She wanted nothing more than to snap 'no!' and hang up on the elder Holmes, but as he was in charge of her salary, she held her tongue. "It's rather hectic here, sir."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "You will meet me exactly at eight tomorrow evening in my private room at the Diogenes Club. Failure to appear will—"

"Result in my termination. Yes, Mr Holmes, I understand," Birdy finished. "Is it acceptable for me to arrive early?"

Mycroft seemed to ignore her sardonic tone. "I will send a car to you, Miss Mason. Do not make me wait." And with a click, he hung up.

"Your brother is such a charmer," Birdy called over to her flatmate.

"It runs in the family," Sherlock responded, not taking his eyes off Victoria. After a few more incredibly intrusive questions, he strode over to Birdy and held out his hand for his phone, as if he had somehow forgotten that he was interrogating Victoria in the first place (which was ridiculous, seeing as this was Sherlock Holmes).

Birdy grabbed hold of him and hauled herself up first, garnering an eye roll from Sherlock. "Well, since our camping trip was ruined, will we be going home?" She wanted to be upset that they were leaving, but Birdy had decided that this outdoor adventure thing wasn't the hobby for her. Victoria, bless her, had tried to make it a fun bonding experience, but a hot shower was sounding more attractive by the minute.

And if Victoria ever tried to make her go camping again, Birdy could just to remind her of the murder victim in the woods.

"No, we are staying at an inn not too far from here." He took off at a brisk pace, leaving Birdy to scramble after him. She paused briefly to collect her rucksack, and in that time, she nearly lost sight of the consulting detective, who had walked deeper into the forest.

"Really?"

"Do try to sound less thrilled, Bridget. A man was found dead on your holiday."

"We were doing fine until you showed up," Birdy replied. "Speaking of, what about Molly and Victoria? Aren't we going to wait for them?"

"No. Unfortunately, I was only able to get one room," Sherlock said in a voice that indicated that he wasn't very sorry about this arrangement at all. The two had reached the edge of the woods finally, where a sleek black car was waiting. It was difficult to decide if Sherlock had borrowed Mycroft's car, or if the elder Holmes had sent it for them, as neither sounded all that appealing. Birdy chose to keep silent as she slipped into the passenger side.

The drive to town was silent, punctuated only by Birdy's yawns and the purr of the Jaguar's engine. They pulled up to a charming, two storey stone house with a lovely front garden, and gas lamps lining the path. It had an ancient, yet homey, sort of feel to it, and had Birdy come here with anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, she might have actually enjoyed it. Instead, the moment the car was parked, her companion tossed a small object at her face.

"Put these on," Sherlock commanded, turning off the engine.

She opened the box, only to find a set of rings. "Sherlock, are these wedding rings?"

But her surly flatmate had already exited and was walking around the back of the car to the boot. Birdy rolled her eyes but did as he asked and followed after, silently helping him pull out two suitcases. Just before they reached the front door of the inn, Sherlock threaded her arm through his and gave her a withering look, as if he were silently ordering her to play along.

The front entrance was filled with an array of furniture and ornaments that didn't match but somehow gave the room an eccentric vibe that she wished her flat at Baker Street had, but would probably never be able to possess. The room was cluttered, without feeling claustrophobic, and smelled strongly of jasmine. She watched the hour hand of an ornate grandfather clock inch closer to eleven while Sherlock tapped the bell sat on the abandoned front desk. After a few moments, a door behind the desk opened and an elderly woman wearing a floral dressing gown shuffled out.

"Mr Holmes, I presume?" the old woman asked in a gravelly sort of voice that could only be acquired by smoking multiple packs of cigarettes a day.

Sherlock nodded and stepped up to the front desk, dragging Birdy along with him. When Birdy tried to pry her arm from his grip, Sherlock glared down at her and held on more tightly. Before Birdy could step on his foot, the woman was clearing her throat.

"And this is…" the woman asked, her voice trailing off as she focused on Birdy.

"My wife," was all Sherlock said.

Birdy did her best to not roll her eyes. Well, that explained the wedding rings.

The elderly woman behind it eyed the two of them suspiciously, paying close attention to their hands, before finally surrendering a set of room keys. She led them up to the second floor, pausing only to give them a distrustful look before pushing open the door to the moderately sized bedroom. There was a raspberry colour sofa pushed in between two picture windows that looked out on the front garden, an ornate mahogany armoire was tucked in the corner, which matched the large four-poster bed. Birdy reached out to touch the velvet curtains hanging from the bed while Sherlock dealt with the innkeeper. She tried not to jump in surprise when Sherlock placed a hand on her waist, though from the stern look she received, she had not succeeded.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" Birdy hissed the moment the bedroom door was closed, jumping away from the dark-haired man.

"The establishment doesn't allow unmarried members of the opposite sex share a room," Sherlock said, in a tone that implied that he thought she was being purposefully dense. "And there are no other rooms available in the area."

"So we have to share a bed?"

"Do you ever pay attention? I said that all of the rooms were full," Sherlock snapped while he swung his suitcase up onto the bed and opened it. "Mycroft didn't want you to wonder the woods like a vagabond with a murderer on the loose and I wasn't about to sleep in a tent. This was the only option."

"Hold on," Birdy said, mimicking his actions with the other suitcase. She was annoyed, but not all that unsurprised, to see a few days' worth of clothes that were in her size but she didn't recognise inside, along with new toiletries. Anthea must have packed it then. Sherlock wouldn't have been bothered to bring her anything and Mrs Hudson would have packed Birdy's own clothes. "What does Mycroft have to do with this?"

Sherlock spun to face her, his face splitting into a grin. "Oh, good, I was worried that you actually were listening when he called." He began to loosen the buttons on his shirt sleeves and kicked off his shoes. "It's best to not listen when he speaks, Bridget. Doing so only affirms his belief of his importance."

Birdy wanted to defend her boss by reminding Sherlock that Mycroft actually was rather important, in the grand scheme of things, but was too tired to start another argument. "Which side of the bed is mine, then?"

Sherlock paused from his rummaging through his suitcase to look up at her in confusion. "Neither."

"Then where am I supposed to sleep?"

"Originally, I had planned for you to take the floor, but I'm sure you will find that sofa adequate for the night." And with that, Sherlock grabbed a bundle of clothes and swirled off to the bath. Birdy stared at the closed door in first shock, then great annoyance, before grabbing her own pyjamas and toothbrush and marching into the bath across the hall. Two could play this game.

If Sherlock was surprised to find a single blanket on the sofa and a sleeping Birdy in the middle of the bed, he really shouldn't have been.

Early Birdy Catches the Worm

Had Sherlock been less of an ass the night before, Birdy might have felt bad when she woke up to find her flatmate's long limbs folded into awkward looking angles on the small settee. She was surprised, more than anything, to find the dark-haired man resting, given her knowledge of Sherlock's abysmal sleeping habits, particularly when he was on a case. She considered briefly shaking him awake, to at least move him to the bed where he would be undeniably more comfortable, but decided against it— as much as she didn't mind Sherlock, he wasn't always the most enjoyable person to spend time with, which was what would definitely happen once he was roused from his slumber. Instead, she took the book he had obviously fallen asleep reading from his hands and placed it on a nearby table before covering him over with the blanket that had fallen to the floor.

When he didn't stir, Birdy grabbed her handbag and shoes and sneaked out of the room. After putting on her shoes and enduring a conversation with the elderly innkeeper from the night before ("My husband, bless him, is exhausted from last night, so he's having a bit of a lie in"), Birdy stepped out into the early morning sunlight. There was a heaviness in the air that was promising that the day would be a humid one, and Birdy found that she was sweating by the time she reached the little coffee shop in town. A bell above the door chimed as Birdy entered the building, catching the attention of Molly, who had claimed a table in the back corner.

"Anything interesting?" Birdy asked, pointing at the newspaper Molly had spread across the small table.

"Crystal Palace lost another match," Molly said, flipping the page casually.

"I said, interesting, Molly," Birdy replied with an easy grin. "Everyone knows Crystal Palace is having a dreadful season."

Molly quirked her lips into a smile. "How did you sleep last night?"

"I'm not the one who found a dead body," Birdy replied. "How are you?"

Molly shrugged as she folded up the paper. "I work with dead people all the time. I slept fine. I was more worried about Victoria, honestly. She's still asleep."

In the chaos of the previous night, Birdy had forgotten about her friends. "Where did you end up staying? Sherlock said that there was only one room left in the place we stayed at."

"Fabio's backseat," Molly sighed. "Which was about as comfortable as it sounds."

Birdy reached forward to pat her friend's hand in sympathy. "I'm sure Sherlock will be able to commiserate. I made him sleep on the sofa in our room."

"I'm sure he deserved it," Molly laughed.

Birdy gave her friend a wink in response but was stopped from answering further by the arrival of a tall, gangly man in his mid-twenties and curly blond hair. He pulled a notepad out of the pocket of the apron he had slung around his waist and began to take their orders, his full lips turned up with a flirtatious smile. He was a bit young for Birdy's usual preference, but he was rather cute in a puppyish sort of way, and Birdy had no reason not to reciprocate.

That was until the bell over the shop door rang again, and the sexual tension in the room increased by fifty percent. Had all of the longings not come solely from Molly, Birdy might have even been able to tolerate it. As it were, the moment Sherlock pulled up a chair from a neighbouring table and dropped into it, sitting far closer to Birdy than she thought was strictly necessary, Molly buried herself behind her newspaper, firmly ignoring the newest addition to the table. Sherlock ignored Molly as well, his light eyes surveying the waiter for a moment, and draping an arm across Birdy's shoulders.

"She'll have a Darjeeling, one sugar, no milk. Nothing for me, thank you," Sherlock said, waving off the stunned looking waiter. The moment the young man had stumbled away, Birdy pushed off her flatmate's arm, mentally noting that he had decided to forgo his usual suit jacket. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this but didn't move to replace it.

"Why would you do that?" Birdy whined, slouching down in her seat and glaring at her flatmate. "He was perfectly lovely, and he didn't deserve to be treated like—"

Sherlock pulled out his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans (Birdy's brain nearly short-circuited at this) and pretended to look like he was doing something important with it. "We're supposed to be married, Bridget. You flirting with the baristas undermines our charade."

"Oh, bloody hell, who cares? We'll be leaving today anyway," Bird snapped, guilt welling up in her chest when Molly let out a shuddering sigh.

Sherlock continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "Besides, he's entirely the wrong sort for you, Bridget."

"I think I can decide the right sort for myself, thanks."

"He has an incest fetish," Sherlock interjected. Birdy opened her mouth, but no intelligible sounds came out. "And you look like his sister."

Molly snickered from behind her newspaper, and Birdy had to suppress the urge to kick the woman in the shins. Instead, Birdy took a few calming breaths and turned to face her flatmate, resting an elbow on the table in front of her. "What are you even doing here, Sherlock," she asked, feeling too tired for so early in the morning.

"Mycroft just called me and ruined my morning," Sherlock replied, dropping his mobile on the table and turning to glare down at her. "You know, Bridget, I don't really care what you do with your life, but don't bring me into it."

Birdy thought this was rather rich, coming from Sherlock. It was, after all, his fault that Birdy was in about ninety percent of the dangerous situations she had ever encountered. "You didn't have to come, you know. You aren't my keeper."

"And endure another phone call with my brother? I think not," he scoffed, turning his head away to glare at the waiter.

"And since when have you ever cared about answering his calls, Sherlock?" Birdy challenged. She knew that he never did because Mycroft always contacted her after his call to his younger brother when unanswered. "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Bridget. I don't miss people." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were looking at a particularly odd crime scene. "When did my brother you order you back by?"

"Six this evening," she replied without missing a beat.

"I'll have you back by seven, then."

"That's better than nothing, I suppose," Birdy replied, pretending to sigh in annoyance.

"You could just not show up at all, you know. You need to learn to stand up for yourself, and not let other people dictate your life." Sherlock said. He handed the menu to the waiter, who had reappeared with her tea, and began speaking before the young man had a chance to open his mouth. "She'll have the fruit bowl. Nothing for me, thank you."

Birdy watched as the waiter made a hasty retreat before turning to give her flatmate an accusatory look. "Was that an example?"

Sherlock looked back down at his mobile instead of answering, giving Birdy no indication of his intentions. With Sherlock present, Molly was hesitant to speak as freely as before, and Sherlock, being himself, was disinclined to make meaningless small talk, leaving the party of three in what Birdy considered to be a very awkward silence. Birdy tried to smile pleasantly at the waiter when he brought Birdy her breakfast but couldn't meet the man's eyes, Sherlock's deduction still ringing in her ears. Damn Sherlock.

At least he was considerate enough to allow her to finish her meal, Birdy thought after he yanked her out of the chair, claiming that he needed to see the dumpsite. She had just enough time to drop a few quid onto the table and bid Molly farewell before she was dragged out of the café. Birdy managed to wrench her arm from her flatmate's grasp and reluctantly trudged after him to where he had parked the car. After a short ride, Sherlock hopped out and started off into the forest, a rucksack on his back looking very out of place against his crisply pressed white shirt.

Before Birdy had been forced to join Sherlock at various crime scenes, she had thought that his work would look more impressive. In reality, it involved him spinning around and looking at things. If a copper was present, Sherlock might even speak out loud, even if only to insult the poor sod for missing vital pieces of evidence. At least this time, Sherlock had shed his ridiculous coat.

Birdy sat on a log as she watched Sherlock squat next to where, presumably, the body had been found, his jaw locked in concentration. She pulled out her mobile and texted John, asking why he wasn't present. He was, after all, Sherlock's favourite accessory.

"What do you think, Bridget?" He asked suddenly, standing up turning to face her.

She resisted the urge to ask him what he was talking about, knowing that it would only receive a scoff of annoyance. "Based on context, you want to know what I think about the crime scene?"

"Dumpsite," Sherlock snapped. "The murder didn't take place here. This was merely where our killer left the body."

"Dumpsite," Birdy amended. "Well, the body was found in the woods, in a place not easily accessible to hikers, so the killer didn't want the victim to be found."

"Anderson could have told me as much. What else?"

Birdy took a deep breath, trying to ignore how his words stung and focused on the ground. "It hasn't rained in a few weeks, so the ground is dry," she said slowly. "I think I heard last night that the victim had been dead for less than 24 hours?" When Sherlock nodded, she continued. "We wouldn't be able to see footprints with the ground so dry, but if the suspect dragged the victim, there should have been at least drag marks on the ground." Birdy said.

"There would also be more disturbance in the vegetation," Sherlock added. "Note the stones in the area are also unturned."

"So the murderer would have had to carry the victim here."

Sherlock nodded sharply. "And what does that tell us about our suspect?"

"That they are physically fit?"

"Probability favours that the suspect is a male," Sherlock replied. "The victim was nearly six feet tall and weighed approximately fourteen stone. If we take into account that the average woman in England is fifteen centimetres shorter than the average man, it is more statistically more likely that a male carried our victim. Furthermore, the victim appeared to be placed, not dropped. You can tell by the vegetation: if our victim was dropped, there would be more disturbance. A woman would most likely have difficulty wielding such control over a dead body."

"And how do you know that the suspect didn't have help?"

Sherlock stared at her, his expression flat.

"The vegetation would have been disturbed more if there was a second suspect?" Birdy guessed.

Sherlock spun around and started off into the woods, following an invisible path. Birdy stood and followed after him, watching as the dark haired man dodged trees, vaulted over logs, and occasionally stopping to sniff various moss-covered surfaces. Their trek led them to a stretch of paved road. "This is where the suspect parked," Sherlock said after a moment of pacing. "From here, he carried the victim to the dumpsite, returned, and drove back the way he came."

Birdy surveyed the ground and noticed that there were a set of car tracks that left a faint dusty imprint on the road, which indeed appeared to turn around. She glanced back up at her flatmate, who was typing furiously on his mobile. "What do we do?" She asked. Sherlock rarely ever invited her to crime scenes, and when he did, she almost always declined, so she was unsure how they were to proceed.

"I've contacted the inspector of this case. I'll need impressions of these tracks before they've been compromised further. You'll be tracing the last known movements of our victim."

"What, right now?"

"Obviously."

"I don't have my laptop," Birdy stated.

Sherlock shrugged the rucksack off of his shoulders and handed it to her. She opened it, only to find her silver, government-issued computer inside.

* * *

 **A/N: Did you miss me? Let me know what you think. The good and the constructive. Reviews give me the motivation to write. -CheckAlexa**


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